


All Alone In Your Holy Fire

by zombiesam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Jo Harvelle, Angel/Human Relationships, Car Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Lucifer (Supernatural), Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Minor Character Death, Religious Conflict, Religious Fanaticism, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiesam/pseuds/zombiesam
Summary: Castiel didn’t go to hell because he made a deal. But the reason he was brought back to the earth is stranger still. Through it all, an angel who goes by the name of Dean teaches the devout man what it really means to have faith as they stare down the barrel of the end of the world.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh MAN I'm excited to share this with you all. It's my first reverse!verse fic I've ever done and I'm a little nervous.  
> HUGE thanks to my beta **[darkwingdukat.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/DarkwingDukat)** This wouldn't be possible without you.

The colors of hell burn brightest in the dark. 

Blood-red. Artery-purple. Pus-yellow. Chains, and screams, and fire like little else. In the deep, a knife plunged into the skin is relief from the fire; the fire, a relief from the waiting of it all. Waiting to burn. Waiting to be carved. That’s the true hell; waiting. Knowing. Knowing you will be in pain, and knowing you will always wait for more pain. 

Castiel understands pain. He understands waiting. He understands its burning, hellish purpose. He understands what it is to be twisted and prodded and eaten and scorched.

But now, Castiel Novak feels a different kind of pain; a muffled, diluted pain that his brain registers as different. Unintentional. No flaying of the nerves, no peeling of the skin or ripping or carving or screaming that would drive Castiel to madness if such a thing existed in hell. Instead, he is suffocating on a mouthful of wet dirt, locked in a tight box with no light. Castiel wonders if this is some new torture, some new way to burn his soul until nothing remains but acrid, black smoke. Perhaps making him think that he is free is the worst of it all. 

Suffocation is nothing. He’d gladly take suffocation, the pulsing, pressing panic of the lack of oxygen in his lungs over the agonizing fire. Over the festering wounds. The carving, slicing, howling pain of a white-hot blade. He knocks his palm up against the lid, grateful when it breaks under the force as he claws his way out with his free hand. Warm, earthy soil falls away as he drags himself out of the hole in the ground and climbs shakily to his feet. Soon, he is standing again. There is no pain. No fire. No waiting for the inevitable burst of dizzying agony.

As he pulls himself to his feet above the shallow grave that held his body only moments ago, he looks around him, realizing he’s at the center of what looks like a massive blast site. Before him, a circle of trees bows before the earth in an empty field, flattened by some massive force as though his very Lazarus-esque act had been enough to send a force out for almost a mile around. The grass beneath his shoes is dry and crunchy. Something was here. Something big. Castiel is alone, and he is not in hell any longer. He is confused, weak, tired, and unbearably thirsty. Behind him, the shadow of the cross which marked his grave disappears and reappears as the sun dips in and out of the clouds.

He is free, he understands. Above him, the sunshine is harsh and unrepentant as it casts an angry glare down to the dry earth as though telling Castiel to return beneath the scorching crust where he belongs. 

But the sunlight does not burn. 

His brother doesn’t answer his phone when Castiel tries to call from the dusty payphone box on the edge of the dirt road. It goes straight to voicemail. When he tries to call Balthazar, Balthazar hangs up with a deadly, albeit colorful, threat on his lips, unbelieving that Castiel could possibly be real. Castiel is a dead man, of course. And there are many creatures eager to take a dead man’s face. He and Lucifer had been notable hunters in their time, and Castiel is sure they’d pissed off enough of the things they hadn’t killed to make them want to use Castiel for their own benefit. He would have to find Balthazar - or his brother - in person and hope that they wouldn’t kill him before he had time to explain that he is real. _Resurrected_. 

But first, Castiel needs water.

Breaking into the old gas station across the field is easy. And much to his relief, the fridge is stocked with water. He drinks enough to satiate him without the threat of throwing it back up again and digs into the first granola bars he can find. When he’s fed and watered enough to think more clearly, Castiel touches his right shoulder. It tingles and, for a moment, it burns when his fingers brush against the skin. Raised skin, like an ugly scar. Castiel is sure to have many more of those.

He stands before the mirror on the far end of the tiny shop, looking at himself in dazed disbelief. He is whole; pale and tired, eyes darting and unfocused. A hint of a beard growing out around his chin. But no markings stretch across his face. No scars. No sign of pain or misery or bloodshed. But the hell hounds...surely the hell hounds would have left their mark.

He lifts his shirt, breathing a soft gasp. His abdomen is clear of any bruise, cut, or scar. There is no reminder of where the hell hounds had ripped his intestines straight from his stomach, had torn deep, irreparable rivets down through his chest. Rivers of blood, of pain that had only been but a taste of what he would feel down below where the sun doesn’t reach except to burn. Nothing. He is as clear and strong as before he had ever been touched; not even old hunting scars remain. The fatal injuries the hell hounds had torn into his flesh had stayed with him in hell, never fully healing, only being ripped open again and again and again…

Now, he is whole.

Gingerly, Castiel lifts up the sleeve of his t-shirt with shaking fingers. Across his shoulder, a red, raised handprint scars his skin. Something had grabbed him by the shoulder and left that imprint there on his flesh. The scar burns, but the burn is entirely unlike the scorching flames of hell that, molecule by molecule, yearned to burn his very soul of its essence until there was nothing left. This burn is a live wire of nerves and light, not unpleasant as it is strange and alien, so unlike anything Castiel has ever felt. Swallowing thickly, he pushes the sleeve of his shoulder back down, concealing the handprint once more.

Then, the air erupts into a pinnacle of harsh noise, cutting through the muffled, near-silence of summer cicadas lingering in the dry grass outside. The dingy TV screen in the corner bursts into static, making Castiel turn. He tilts his head, watching it for a moment before a high whine makes him flinch. It grows in volume until it reaches a dizzying crescendo that he can no longer ignore. He presses his hands over his ears, stumbling to the shelves to grab the salt and coat the edges of the windows and doors in its protective line. But the sound doesn’t stop. Castiel’s ears bleed as he screams in agony -

And then silence. The nothingness. The anticipation of pain, the jerking, terrifying agony in waiting. Castiel waits. But nothing comes. Not the noise, not the flickering of the television. There is nothing. Castiel gathers a pocketful of food and makes his way to Balthazar’s house, his head buzzing with answers that would not come.

Balthazar doesn’t believe him. Not at first. Not that he should. Balthazar launches himself at Castiel, swinging the silver blade down towards his shoulder which Castiel narrowly deflects.

"Balthazar!" Castiel sputters. "It's me!" 

"Not bloody likely!" He launches himself at Castiel again, and Castiel neatly sidesteps the attack, ducking under his arm. He smells a whiff of alcohol - Balthazar is drunk. 

"Balthazar. It's me. Look!" He grabs his silver blade, slicing it across the skin of his forearm with a wince. Blood trickles off his wound. Balthazar splashes holy water on his face. Then again. And again.

But Castiel doesn't burn. A moment of taut silence falls between them, and when Balthazar asks if it's really, truly is him, Castiel nods and accepts the stiff, clumsy hug. Balthazar immediately demands answers that Castiel can't give. He doesn't know. He knows that there was a massive blast site around his grave and that the small cross behind the headstone had gone untouched. Between the ear-splitting noise and the scar of a handprint on his skin, it’s safe to say that something big had raised Castiel from the pit. 

Something with unimaginable power far beyond anything they had ever seen or could even begin to understand. 

Balthazar is as baffled as Castiel. He sits on the chair across from him, watching him carefully. “So...holy Christ, Castiel. Do you remember anything?” he asks hesitantly. “From hell?”

Visions slice across Castiel’s vision, cutting through his head at breakneck speed. Painful, throbbing colors. Blue bruises, purple blood. Red intestines. Yellow fluid. He blinks, shoving them aside quickly before they can engulf him. He tries to imagine a thick wall between himself and forty years of putrid color threatening to spill over the edges of his conscience.

“No,” Castiel lies quietly. Convincingly, he hopes. “I remember the hell hounds ripping me apart. I remember Lilith. I remember a...great burst of light. And then...I woke up in the cemetery.”

Blue. Red. Purple. Orange fire. Screaming. His voice, another’s voice. Laughter. The waiting of it all. Forty years of memory shoved deep in the crevices of Castiel’s skin. The very thought of forgetting is nearly enough to make him laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he thinks of his brother with a sinking pit in his stomach.

“Balthazar...where is my brother?” he asks quietly. He needs to keep talking to keep the colors at bay.

Balthazar breathes a sigh. “He just left. He insisted on burning your body, but I...I couldn’t. Call me a softie, but there was some part of me that believed we could still drag your bloody ass back out. But after you became that hell hound’s chew toy, I didn’t hear from your brother again. He got quiet. Real quiet. Like he was...thinking about all this stuff. I tried to reach out to him, but…no luck. Not on my end.”

Balthazar shakes his head. “You know how he gets. These past five months have been rough, Castiel. For both of us.”

Castiel eyes the half-empty bottles of liquor on the desk.

“Really rough,” Balthazar emphasizes with a huff. “But...hell, I’m glad you’re home.”

Castiel smiles despite himself. “It’s good to be back.”

They hug again, and this time, the hug is easier for Castiel to give.

“Look,” Balthazar continues, “I know you two were distant and all before all of this ungodly crap went down. But I’m sure he’ll be happy as who-knows-what to hear you’re back from the dead.”

Castiel sighs. Distant. Yes. Distant is the word. He sits down on the chair opposite Balthazar. His legs feel weak and rubbery, like the muscles aren’t quite accustomed to movement just yet. His fingers find the Bible on the table - his Bible. The well-read bookmarked copy of his own Bible. The cover, sleek and black, is a familiar touch under Castiel’s calloused fingers. He takes it into his hands, feeling its familiar weight.

“You kept this?” Castiel asks. His mouth works around another, small smile.

“Course I did. You loved the hell outta that thing. Just because I’m not exactly the praying type didn’t mean I was gonna just get rid of your favorite book.”

“That means a lot, Balthazar. Thank you.”

Balthazar waves him off. Castiel trusts Balthazar - he always has. And he knows that Balthazar is no better with declarations of sentiment than Castiel is himself. “We should try and find your brother. And then we need to figure out what exactly decided to drag you out of that blasted pit.”

Castiel sighs. He takes the Bible into his lap, opening the cover and thumbing through the familiar pages with soft eyes. 

“My brother is difficult to trace when he does not want to be found.”

“Trust me,” Balthazar huffs. “I know.”

Placing the book back on the table, Castiel gives Balthazar a slow nod.

“I’ll try giving Lucifer another call. If he doesn’t pick up, I’ll track his phone...but if I cannot find him, we begin looking for what did this to me. And why.”

True to Castiel’s suspicion, Lucifer doesn’t want to be found. Castiel can’t trace his phone, nor can he trace any bank statement activity in the past month. He’s always been good at covering his tracks. A quiet prowler, a lone wolf in the night; if Lucifer does not want to be found, he simply will not be found.

“Balthazar...do you think it could have been Lucifer who made a deal? Do you think he would have been responsible for raising me?”

Balthazar gives him a long, steady look. Castiel is aware of how he sounds - hopeful, yet apprehensive. Terrified, but steady in his words. Castiel hopes that it wasn’t Lucifer’s doing just as much as he hopes that it was his attempt. Perhaps he is selfish enough to hope that Lucifer cares for him enough to try, as much as he resents the idea that his brother would be so stupid as to doom his own fate for Castiel. The paradoxical tide of everything Castiel feels for his brother is nothing that Castiel is unaccustomed to.

“What do you think?” Balthazar asks slowly.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

He glances at his Bible again and ponders over every question that the book could never answer. Every question he’s never wanted that book to answer. In a quiet fit of frustration, Castiel looks away.

“You know,” Balthazar begins slowly. “As much as I’m practically dancing to know what pulled you out, I’d also like to know what put you in that pit in the first place, Castiel.”

Castiel looks at him with steady eyes. “I told you already. I didn’t make a deal if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Demons have a way of tricking people into making deals, don’t they? They might not always be clear about their intentions, at least according to -- “

“Balthazar. I’m a skilled hunter. We went over this when that crossroads demon told me of my fate to begin with. When I began hallucinating on the days leading up to my death. I have no reason to lie to you about this, especially not now. I didn’t make a deal.”

Castiel knows that he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He never, ever would - he knows how those end. And desperate as he’s been, he’s never been so desperate as to bargain with a deal for something that he wants. The reasons for Castiel’s damnation, Castiel knows, were not the result of any deal that he made.

Balthazar pinches the bridge of his nose. “So you have no idea what sent you down there? None at all? Because I’m getting the feeling that maybe whatever pulled you down like that could have had the power to drag you out, too.” He sighs. “Look. I know a psychic - she’s the best there is. Little flirty. Pretty lady, though. I’m gonna contact her and see if she can get this figured out.”

He stands up slowly and gives Castiel a long, tired look.

“You sure you don’t know what did it, mate?” he asks quietly. The lack of trust in Balthazar’s eyes makes Castiel’s body feel heavy. He stares the elder hunter straight in the eye.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I have no idea what could have dragged me down like that,” he lies softly. Easily. He wonders what other lies would spill past his careful lips. Castiel was always a terrible liar - perhaps it was his greatest deficit as a hunter. But lying feels as easy as picking up a blade and plunging it into a monster’s heart.

Balthazar gives Castiel a lingering stare before he stands up and goes to make the call.

Pamela is a handsy one. Her hands go to Castiel’s hips, even his thighs. Light, friendly flirtations bordering on too touchy, too much. Balthazar has to shoo her away when the words are stuck on Castiel’s tongue. She’s confident and perhaps could be attractive if Castiel had the affinity. He watches her speak to Balthazar, reassuring him that if something otherworldly was to be found, it could be traced with the mark on Castiel’s skin. He’s aware of her eyes on him as he pulls off his coat and tries his best to look away.

Together, the three sit in a circle, warm candles lit before each of them. The room is dark save for the small flames, and Castiel shivers in the low light. Pamela rests a warm hand on the handprint scar on Castiel’s shoulder and the touch makes those live wires tingle underneath his skin all over again. The burn-not-burn. He shivers involuntarily, and Balthazar opens one eye to look at him. 

“Can we get this over with?” Castiel murmurs. Pamela only laughs.

“This stuff takes time, Cassie,” she says lightly. But her demeanor soon changes. She instructs Balthazar and Castiel to bow their heads and begins murmuring for the being to make itself known, softly at first, but with greater conviction as she speaks louder and louder to the quiet room. The candles on the table dance in the dim light, making Castiel shiver with anticipation.

“I conjure and command you...I conjure and command you…”

Again and again, she commands the presence of whatever drew Castiel back to the land of the living - the table shakes. The very air in the room roars with the incantation and the candles flare. The familiar, high burst of noise assaults Castiel’s ears as he squeezes his eyes shut to fight off the onslaught of sound. 

Then, the quiet.

“Don’t you lie to me like that,” she says with sharp authority. “Surely your real name is not _Dean_. I can see your true face. You are -- “

All eyes are on her as her voice cuts off. She tilts her head, as though straining to listen. Castiel draws in a sharp breath. Dean. He had been expecting a far more...commanding name. A name fit for a demon or perhaps even a god - not a human. Pamela lets out a low laugh, speaking to this “Dean” that only she can see and hear.

“No, I will not look back, Dean. I’m not afraid of you. So why don’t you --”

Her voice cuts off. There’s a terrible beat of silence (waiting, always waiting) and then, Pamela screams. Castiel and Balthazar stumble out of their chairs in shock, gaping at Pamela as she throws her head back in an agonized howl. Terrible fire erupts from her eyes, scorching her face from within. She wails in agony as the fire burns brighter and brighter, and soon, she collapses onto the floor. Castiel rushes to her side in horror as two wide, black holes gape up at him from where her eyes used to be. The skin is scorched and burned.

“I can’t see,” she whimpers. Castiel can only stare, silent and wordless as his gaze darts between her and Balthazar. Panic rises in this throat as his hands begin to shake, gaping at Balthazar wordlessly as he gropes to take her shaking hand in his.

“I can’t see!” she cries out hoarsely. “I can’t see…”

“Blimey - I’m getting her to the hospital,” Balthazar says quickly. Castiel’s head swims as Balthazar takes her and rushes her to the car as Castiel stumbles out after them, watching him hurry her away. The handprint tingles again. Castiel wishes he could rip it off his skin.

Castiel drives back to Balthazar’s house, having taken a separate car should Balthazar want to stay, and waits. Waiting is all that he can do. He brushes his fingers over the scar, again and again, as though hoping it would provide some answer, though he hates its presence and all that it represents. What he knows is that whatever this thing is, it isn’t friendly. Far from it. And when Balthazar gets back, hours later, Castiel tells him that he wants to go after the being that raised him from hell, dangerous or not.

“We’ll have to hit this thing with everything we’ve got,” Balthazar warns him. Balthazar is hardly a hunter when he doesn’t want to be. With menial knowledge of the supernatural, he knows his way around weaponry enough to help Castiel out on the occasional hunt, enough that he’s grown to be effective in his own right. But now, he’s fully on, fully sober, and fully ready to take on whatever thing this creature is. Castiel grimly agrees with him - everything they’ve got might not even be enough. He only wishes that Lucifer were here with them. Castiel has always been a better hunter with his brother by his side.

Balthazar and Castiel sit in the barn in silence. With anxious anticipation, Balthazar snaps at Castiel for loudly drumming his fingers on the table, before quickly silencing himself when the two hear something stirring from outside.

One moment there is silence; taut, eager, and unfaltering. In the moments following Castiel’s question - are you sure you did the ritual right, Balthazar? - an eruption of sound clamors around them, sending them both flying to their feet. Sound, everywhere -- on the roof. On the walls. The shingles on the roof coming to life, beating madly against one another as though caught in the fury of a brilliant thunderstorm. Castiel’s wide, blue eyes snap to attention. Quickly, he and Balthazar stand as the lights above them explode in a frenzy of sparks and brilliant light, hurling the barn into murky, gray darkness. They raise their weapons to the barn doors, which snap apart, pushing open towards them as though the piece of wood barring them shut was nothing but a toy.

Guns raised, the steely focus of the two hunters sets upon not a monster, but a man. Standing tall with narrow eyes and a leather jacket hanging loosely from a gray t-shirt, he walks with slow, steady purpose. Sharp cheekbones cut across his face. Wide, green eyes stare into Castiel’s own. As Castiel takes in his presence, he notices the man wearing ripped jeans and black, lace-up boots - possibly a demon. But the guns do little to phase him -- even with them raised in warning, he smirks and continues his slow tread across the dirt. Thunder crashes around them, the lights raving and thrashing in the dark as though in an attempt to flee from the man’s commanding presence. Castiel knows power when he sees it -- and though this person, this thing could easily just be another man in the wind, a hunter, even -- the power he exudes is raw and unfaltering. 

The wind howls. Castiel and Balthazar fire their weapons, once, twice, and then again. But the bullets bury themselves in his body as though they were nothing but a summer’s breeze against his skin. He’s headed straight for Castiel, the faint, knowing smirk never once leaving his chiseled face. Castiel and Balthazar look at one another frantically, before Castiel reaches for the demon blade, holding high for the creature to see. A warning. Now merely feet from Castiel, the two circle one another, their gazes locked in a tight, unfaltering challenge.

“Who are you?” Castiel asks lowly. The man chuckles.

“Me?” The man shakes his head faintly. “It’s not obvious? I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised your ass from perdition.”

Castiel freezes. A beat of silence - then;

“Well. You did your job.”

Castiel drives the blade into the man’s chest. The man looks down without flinching. He sighs. Bored. He pulls the blade out of his chest, and then and there, Castiel’s frantic, unpleasant life flashes before his eyes. But the man doesn’t attack. He drops the blade to the floor. 

Flanking the man, Balthazar raises his crowbar in a quick flash of movement. Without turning around, the man catches it just as the metal is about to connect with his head. He rips it easily from Balthazar’s hand and whirls around to face him. The man raises two fingers and places them onto Balthazar’s forehead. In seconds, Balthazar’s eyes roll back into his head as the man -- the creature -- gently lowers him to the ground.

Stunned silence befalls Castiel. He watches the man, eyes wide and unblinking, as he turns back to face Castiel with folded arms.

“We need to talk, Castiel,” he says. “Alone.”

I don’t want to talk to you, Castiel thinks wildly to himself.

Castiel glares at the man -- the creature. Whatever he is. Something far, far more unearthly, far more powerful than anything Castiel has ever seen. He shoves past him, dropping to Balthazar’s side to place his ear against his chest. The slow beat of life pushes in Balthazar’s chest; _alive_. Relief floods through Castiel’s chest. The creature hadn’t killed him.

“Calm down. Your friend will live,” the man huffs. He sounds impatient. Castiel ignores him. He feels dizzy and deeply afraid, though this man has made no move to harm him. Not yet.

“Who are you?!” Castiel demands. He meets the creature’s eyes; those same, achingly human eyes. Though Castiel knows this man, whatever he is, is far from that.

“Call me Dean,” he says simply. He moves his fingers across the array of weapons Castiel and Balthazar had brought with them, idly observing them, but making no move to pick any of them up. With an impatient sigh, Castiel bares his teeth.

“Yes, I figured as much,” he snaps. He'd heard that name, screamed to the heavens, right before that woman’s eyes were burned from her skull.

“ What are you?” Castiel asks sharply. “What is your...species?”

Dean idly plays with the paper on the table; the words to the ritual. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, he takes a deep, steady breath. Tense, building silence.

“I’m an angel. Angel of the Lord. Though...I wouldn’t go basing your perception of me on what you've read. Since you do read the Bible, don’t you?”

His eyes cast down to the simple cross pendant hanging around Castiel’s neck. Instinctively, Castiel grabs the pendant, feeling his breath catch in his throat. He had been buried with the pendant, though the cross suspended there brings him little comfort now. His faith in all that the small object once represented burned just as he had burned in the fires of hell. Cut, stripped, and carved away; he had long discarded its messages. But God had been absent in that pit. Absent as he had been since the day Castiel was born. Since the day his home burned.

“Angels…” Castiel breathes. Dean -— a strange, strange name for an angel -— nods once.

“Angels...are a story," Castiel says slowly. "They...they are not like you…" His voice trails off -- awed and cautious. Hesitant to believe. The angel’s mannerisms do not align with Castiel’s perception of the creatures derived from the Bible. He is cocky, smirking, and seems comfortable prodding deep under Castiel’s skin.

Dean sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Well. Then at least we have a place to start, don’t we?”

That smirk again -- the knowing, faint smile stretched across his face that freezes Castiel in place.

“That’s your problem, Castiel," he continues idly. "You’ve always been a religious man, haven’t you? But you’ve never had any faith. ”

Castiel shakes his head, before uttering;

“You’re wrong.”

“No. I know I’m not,” Dean says quickly. He points a finger at Castiel. “Man of the Lord. Castiel Emmanuel Novak. Memorized the whole damn Bible by the time you were five. But...never truly felt God’s presence. You searched for it. You looked, and you looked...but you just...couldn’t...find him. Now, you aren’t all wrong - my Father has been gone...for quite a while. But that made you ask questions. Didn’t it? The wrong kinds of questions.”

Castiel glares at Dean, fists clenched at his sides. 

“I believe there is a God,” Castiel says slowly. “Angels are a story.”

Dean chuckles. The laugh reverberates across the barn walls until it reaches a thunderous crescendo. Castiel flinches as lightning flashes through the barn, causing him to stare back at Dean with wide, wild eyes.

Before him, Dean stands, his gaze steely and fixed on the hunter before him. Against the back wall of the barn, two, massive shadows stretch out on either side of Dean. Wings. Massive, massive wings, reflected in the wild flashes of lightning flickering in the enclosed space. Castiel’s breath catches as a deep, sinking feeling presses against the inner walls of his chest. 

“You…” 

Castiel shakes his head, baring his teeth as he forces himself not to break under the wild realization.

“You call yourself an angel,” he says slowly. “And yet you burned out that poor woman’s eyes.”

Dean frowns. The wings fade from view, cloaking the barn in its gray, inky darkness once again.

“I warned her not to spy on me like that,” Dean murmurs. “My ‘true form’ as we angels call it can be...overwhelming to humans like you. Just like my voice. You knew that, though. Almost blew out your ears. Sorry about that.”

Castiel glares at him, prompting Dean to raise his hands defensively

“Hey, I said sorry. Some people...are able to handle it. I had my doubts, even with your religious...stuff going on there. But, unfortunately, my suspicions were true; I knew you were without faith. And, well, it showed. Didn’t mean to blow your eardrums out, though. Sorry, again.”

Castiel shakes his head slowly. Disbelief marring his features. “That was you...speaking? At the gas station?”

Dean nods. “In the flesh. Well, I wasn’t in the flesh then. I am now. This suit isn’t really me. It’s my vessel."

“A vessel? So you’re possessing this man. You’re -- you’re taking his body. Using him.”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean leans back against the table. “Not how angels work, buddy. We aren’t demons. This guy? He prayed for it. Devout ‘till the end. He had faith.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle as his mouth moves around that word: faith.

In disbelief, Castiel remains silent for a long moment. He watches Dean, his head bowed. Poised to strike should this man -- this angel -- make a single wrong move. Not that he had anything to kill him with anyway; the demon blade hadn’t worked. Neither had their guns.

“Then why me?” Castiel demands. “I was in hell for a reason, wasn’t I? I told Balthazar that I didn’t know what sent me down there, but I-I think that I do. I didn’t make any deal. But I was supposed to be there. I knew that I would --”

Dean raises an eyebrow. The small motion cuts Castiel off mid-sentence.

“You knew you would go down there?” Dean asks suspiciously. “Really? ‘Cause, it doesn’t seem like you know a damn thing.”

Castiel turns away. His face is red, burning with a shame that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He knows why he went down there. And to be saved, by an angel no less, is impossible to rationalize. He watches as Dean tilts his head, slightly, taking a step closer to Castiel. It’s not threatening; it’s curious. Dean studies him like he would an intricate puzzle, tracing the lines of his face to find the missing pieces.

“You just don’t think you deserve to be saved, do you?” he murmurs. Castiel flinches but says nothing. His silence speaks louder than any confession he could make here and now.

“Well...you wanna know why you were saved?” Dean asks slowly. He’s circling Castiel again. Watching him. Observing him. Castiel feels goosebumps erupt up his arms and a harsh shiver passes up his spine. A sense of foreboding casts a cold shadow over Castiel’s shoulders as he watches Dean with wide, wondering eyes. “You were saved because God commanded it. And you and I? We have work to do, Castiel.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel is pacing the room when Balthazar returns from the kitchen. His sharp, blue eyes are cast down at the floor, his body taut and on-edge. The angry handprint on his shoulder tingles under his blue jacket, making him want to rip the fabric away from his body and fling it to the ground. But he doesn’t. It had been almost a full day since he’d met face-to-face with the angel, almost a day since Dean had cryptically told him that they would have _work_ for him to do without specifying what he meant. And Castiel hasn’t thought of anything but the confrontation since then.

Castiel is pacing the room when Balthazar returns from the kitchen. His sharp, blue eyes are cast down at the floor, his body taut and on-edge. The angry handprint on his shoulder tingles under his blue jacket, making him want to rip the fabric away from his body and fling it to the ground. But he doesn’t. It had been almost a full day since he’d met face-to-face with the angel, almost a day since Dean had cryptically told him that they would have _work_ for him to do without specifying what he meant. And Castiel hasn’t thought of anything but the confrontation since then.

“I don’t understand. Why would an angel save me, Balthazar? Why?”

Balthazar pushes a hand down his face. Castiel swears they’ve had this circular conversation at least a thousand times since they came back from the barn - since the angel disappeared. Since Balthazar woke up and learned that angels do, indeed, walk the earth.

“You’re the one who knows the Bible inside and out, mate. You tell me.” He takes a long sip from the wine glass in his hand, staring at Castiel with wide, silent eyes.

Castiel looks away. The Bible’s depictions of angels are vastly unlike what he experienced back in the barn. Now, the black book sitting on the table mocks Castiel, taunting him to _just try_ and flip through the once-familiar pages to find answers that he knows won’t be there.

“The existence of angels implies the existence of God and Heaven,” Castiel murmurs. “Implies that my...my father’s faith is, perhaps, not without the extremism I assumed he came to adopt later in life.”

Balthazar gives Castiel a wary look. “Your old man was about as batshit extreme as they come. I know you’re religious and all, but you aren’t like him.”

Castiel laughs without humor, placing his hands on his hips as he looks down at the floor. “My father was on the verge of starting a cult before I took my brother and ran. I was the one who...who defended our father until the day he…”

Castiel shakes his head. Balthazar bites his lower lip, knowing full-well where this conversation is going. “It doesn’t matter now,” Castiel says quickly. “If God is real…”

“...then we all have a hell of a lot to atone for, huh?” Balthazar finishes for him. Castiel laughs again with a shake of his head. Nothing about this is _funny._ And yet Castiel swears all he can do is laugh lest he cries instead.

“Maybe it’s lying,” Castiel says softly. “It showed me its wings...but...surely angels aren’t the only creatures that have them.”

“Well, you’re the one who said you didn’t make a deal that woulda sent you down to that pit,” Balthazar continues. “So...maybe an angel thinks you didn’t deserve the hellfire after all. And look -”  
He lays down a thick book on the table, pointing to a passage below an inked image of an angel dragging a man from a giant pit in the ground. Hell. Castiel turns his eyes away from the onslaught of color that flashes before his eyes, filling in the black-and-white image on the page; rancid, bitter blue. Purple. Red.

Balthazar’s voice interrupts the onslaught of the intrusive memory, sending Castiel reeling back into the present. “Only angels can save a soul from hell. No other beings have that kind of power.”

Castiel says nothing. He turns his head away from the image in the book. It’s been fifteen years since Castiel came to Balthazar’s doorstep. Fifteen years since he’d forced Balthazar into a life of hunting that he never wanted. Fifteen years since Balthazar had to uproot his life and sever his connections with anybody who isn’t a hunter. 

“Welp, you _are_ the religious one here, aren’t you?” Balthazar asks. “I’d have thought you of all people would believe in this whole angel...business.”

Castiel sucks in a deep breath. He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks haggard. _Tired._ He’d recently shaved, and no scars mark his face from where they’d been etched into his skin for as long as he can remember. If this “Dean” had truly raised him from hell, he had put Castiel back together, molecule by molecule. He had made him _whole._ Castiel feels a tremble threaten to run through his body again.

“I do not believe that my relationship with my religious faith is one that God would appreciate any longer,” he says cryptically. Balthazar only rolls his eyes. Balthazar used to be a church leader - he’d cut himself off from any religious ties long ago.

“Well, you’ve certainly got an angel on your shoulder now,” Balthazar breathes. 

“Have you heard anything from Lucifer?” Castiel asks, already knowing the answer. But he’s desperate to change the subject. Balthazar shakes his head.

“No. I’m sorry. But...I have been finding some not-so-good news. A few hunters I know just turned up dead. Their insides ripped out. Bloody, nasty stuff...I got word from Rufus and it doesn’t seem like it was the work of demons. I was gonna go check it out...you wanna come with me?”

Castiel swallows thickly. A hunt would distract him from...whatever this is. Keep his thoughts from fixating on images of angels and hellfire and everything else he so desperately wishes weren’t real. And, considering this was an actual, _real_ friend of Balthazar’s, Castiel would feel guilty saying ‘no.’ Balthazar had nothing outside of Castiel - nothing but endless bottles of whiskey and terrible daytime television.

“I’ll come,” Castiel murmurs. These hunters are the only friends Balthazar has left. Castiel is in no mood to hunt, but he owes Balthazar that much. Touching the pendant of the cross around his neck, Castiel hurries to grab his things. 

* * *

They visit the home of Olivia Lowry - or, at least, what used to be her home. They find her on the kitchen floor, her throat slashed and ripped apart. Her intestines hang out of her stomach and her small mouth hangs open in a silent scream. For a moment, her face shifts, and Castiel swears he can see the blooming colors of hell stretch across her features. Blue, purple, yellow, red —

His stomach rolls as he shoves the image aside, trying to ground himself in the work of the present. Castiel lowers a steady hand to close her eyes, fighting the urge to clear the matted blood from her dark hair. Behind him, Balthazar scours for EMF, hearing the machine whirr and whine before fading into a soft treble of noise.

“Ghosts were here,” Balthazar murmurs. “Don’t know if they’re here anymore, though. Whatever killed her just...left...the EMF signal is fading. I called up Rufus...same story across all the other spots. Hunters dead, their insides turned into pudding. Fading EMF signals. Whatever this is...this isn’t just some normal haunting. Bloody hell…”

“Left?” Castiel repeats. He tilts his head. “Since when do ghosts...leave?”

Balthazar shrugs, looking down at Olivia’s body with a solemn expression. Olivia had been a close friend of Balthazar’s, Castiel knows. He feels himself swallow thickly, unable to stop staring at her broken body.

“I don’t know. But I don’t like the look of this. Looks like she salted her windows...but whatever this was got her good. She was a good hunter, too. Been doing this for years, not the type to die from a normal ghost haunting. We need to get back to the house so I can get a better look at this.”

Castiel hesitantly agrees.

* * *

Castiel drives in a separate car. He tells Balthazar to drive back to the house without him, telling him that he’d catch up. Hoping to clear his head, Castiel stops at a gas station on their way back, hurrying into the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face. His head is spinning with questions he does not have answers to, nor does he think he _wants_ answers to.

He tries to avoid mirrors when he can, but with the woman’s blood and intestinal fluid still settling across Castiel’s skin, he knows that he has to clean himself off to be able to think clearly enough to drive. He feels clouded and on-edge: _angels._ And now, this strange string of killings that appear to be targeting hunters and nothing else. He can’t help but wonder if they’re connected somehow. 

When he dares look up at his haggard expression in the dirty mirror, a figure stands behind him, startling him. It takes him a moment to adjust to the sight, but he realizes with a sickening jolt that he _knows_ this man. Standing only a few inches taller than Castiel himself, the man with the beret and wide shoulders is none other than Benny LaFitte.

He whirls around, fully expecting the figure to disappear. Perhaps he is only a hallucination, some trick of the light, or a manifestation of Castiel’s anxiety. But he doesn’t. He’s there, no less than ten feet from where Castiel is standing. Castiel can _smell_ him, that familiar musk of faint cologne and pine from Benny’s time spent outdoors. 

But Benny Lafitte is _dead._ Castiel knows this all-too-well. He’d died nearly two years ago and Castiel had _seen him_ dead, ripped limb-from-limb until there was nothing left but bone and traces of gore strewn across the hotel room where they’d been together. But Benny had died two states over, so there’s no reason his ghost should even _be here_ at all. Castiel’s mouth hangs open in disbelief as he struggles to find words.

“Benny?” Castiel rasps. Benny chuckles that same, husky laugh that had made Castiel smile ear-to-ear the first time he ever heard it. Now, it makes him feel sick. His lower lip trembles, shaking his head in numb disbelief as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.

“Cas,” Benny says quietly. “S’good to see ya.”

Castiel’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly in disbelief. Benny stands just as Castiel remembers him; black overcoat. White dress shirt underneath. Thick, broad-shoulders and a heavy, Cajun accent. But before he can make a single sound, Benny swings his fist back and punches Castiel in the mouth. With a grunt, Castiel clamors back against the sink, his head rocking back as blood spurts from his lower lip. He watches Benny with wild eyes as Castiel fumbles for the knife in his belt.

“You _killed_ me, Castiel,” Benny says, almost conversationally. Castiel shakes his head, raising his hands with a pained noise. Guilt floods his system as he _remembers._ Benny. Benny Lafitte, the man he met on a hunt, the man who’d been reduced to nothing but a pile of ripped limbs, drained entirely of blood.   
“Benny, I know, I swear I didn’t mean it — “  
  
Another punch to the mouth unleashes a rough groan from Castiel’s throat. His legs buckle as Benny hits him again and again. Guilt and unbearable shame render him foggy and unresponsive. _Benny._ Benny should be _dead,_ miles and miles from here -

“Benny,” Castiel groans. A trickle of blood pours down his chin where his teeth split his tongue. The pain makes him dizzy, but he hardly registers it now. “Benny, _please,_ I’m sorry - “   
“So many damn _promises_ , Castiel,” Benny laughs darkly. He kicks him down, and Castiel is sure he hears a rib snap. He looks up at him helplessly, wide eyes pleading with him as he tries to reach for him. Benny knocks his hand away carelessly. 

“You useless son of a _bitch._ What are you, some kinda sleep-’n-run? Didn’t you _know_ those vampires on your tail would come after me?”

Castiel opens his mouth, shaking his head with a weak cry. He raises a hand as Benny brings his fist down on Castiel’s face again and again and again. His vision flickers in and out, and for a long moment, Castiel is sure he’s looking down the barrel all over again. He’s going to die, again, except this time, he is going to die curled up in a gas station bathroom by the hand of a man whose death he was responsible for.

“You killed me,” Benny rasps. “You killed me. You killed me, you killed me, and maybe if you’d have kept it in your goddamn _pants_ I wouldn’t have — “

Benny disappears in a puff of smoke as quickly as he’d come before he can finish what he was going to say. Dazed, Castiel tries to stand, but a stabbing pain shoots through his ribs, sending him staggering back down onto the bathroom floor all over again. Before he can utter a sound, a blurry figure approaches him, and Castiel prepares for another onslaught. Maybe one that would kill him for good, this time. But instead, a hand reaches down and gently touches his face. His pain fades in a matter of seconds, and all at once, he feels brand new. His vision swarms into focus as a familiar face appears above him, looking at him with a pinched curiosity.

“Angel,” Castiel breathes. He shakes his head quickly as memories of the day before flood through his mind all at once. “ _Dean._ ” 

Dean stands before him, eyebrows raised with dim curiosity. Castiel could almost say Dean looks _amused_. He offers his hand and Castiel hesitantly accepts it, climbing to his feet with relative ease. He looks at Dean in astonishment as he quickly brushes himself off, looking around for any sign that Benny might return.

“Dean, what are you — what _was_ that?”

Dean sighs. “I’ll explain later. Benny — was that his name? — will be back. Come with me.” Dean reaches out a hand to grab Castiel’s wrist.

“Wait, what are you — “

They’re no longer in the bathroom. A split second passes and Castiel is suddenly thrust onto a stool at an empty bar he’s never seen. White lights hang around the perimeter of the rustic room, lined with wooden tables and the smell of cheap whiskey. Similar to the Roadhouse where Ellen and Anna work, the place has seen better days with its faded, wooden walls and dusty lights. Nobody else is here - it’s only the two of them.

Stunned, Castiel frantically looks around. Hardly a second had passed before they were no longer in the bathroom, but someplace else entirely.

“Dean,” he breathes, “What did you — “

“Relax. I got you outta there. We flew.”

Castiel gapes at him. “ _Flew_. And you took me to...a bar?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. He stares at Dean in quiet disbelief as the angel sips from a glass of whiskey in quiet thought. The irony of an angel taking him to a _bar_ isn’t lost on him. All at once, he’s reminded that this angel - named Dean, no less - isn’t like the angels he’d imagined.

“What was that back there?” Castiel demands. “Why did I see — see _him?_ He’s dead. That couldn’t have been a ghost - he died...far from here. States away. I _burned_ what was left of his body.”

Dean nods in thought, not looking at the other as he sips at his drink. “I figured. What we’re looking at is the Rising of the Witnesses, Castiel. It’s a Seal.”

“A Seal? A Seal of what?”

Dean sets the glass down on the bar table, breathing a lingering sigh. He spins around to look at Castiel, crossing one leg over the other as he folds his hands in his lap.

“You’re not gonna like hearing this,” Dean warns. Castiel grits his teeth.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like any of this!” he snaps. “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Who are you?! And why did you just happen to appear out of nowhere right when Benny’s ghost was about to kill me?”

Dean sighs. “What you’re looking at now is something called ‘The Rising of the Witnesses.’ It’s a seal to the Devil’s cage,” he explains patiently. Castiel feels his entire body grow cold. “There are many of them. Six-hundred and sixty-six to be precise. And once sixty-six of those are broken, the Devil will be free from the cage that holds him and walk the Earth.”

He says this slowly, thoughtfully, even. Never once taking his eyes off of Castiel. Castiel passes a thick swallow past his throat.

“The Devil?” Castiel repeats softly. “As in…”

“As in _the_ Devil,” Dean finishes for him. “Devil with a capital ‘D’. Same one as in your Bible, Old Testament and all.” Castiel looks down at the table. He feels numb, and yet, his heart is pounding in his chest like he’d just run a marathon. Memories of his childhood come rushing back in a sickening whirl of color.

 _‘Prepare yourself for Judgment Day, Castiel,_ ” his father would rasp, eyes hollow and bloodshot from days with little to no sleep. _‘Read your verses. Again. Again…_ ’

He shakes it away. His stomach lurches like he might vomit, but he keeps it at bay. He tries to _breathe._

“And how am I supposed to trust you?” Castiel whispers fiercely. He slams a hand down on the bar, baring his teeth to Dean as though he’d be any _real_ threat to the angel before him. “You — you say you raised me from Hell. You give me _this.“_ Castiel shoves up the sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing the red, raised handprint on his shoulder that tingles in the exposed air. “And then you tell me that this is supposed to be a Seal? This is not something I am prepared for, Dean. Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I’d think that pulling you from the pit would be all the reason for you to trust me,” Dean says quietly. “I can always throw you back in if you’d like a demonstration of how _delicate_ these things really are.” Dean’s eyes flash a brilliant, shining blue, and Castiel momentarily forgets how to breathe. “And as I told you,” Dean continues as his eyes fade back to their typical, earthy green, “We have work for you.”

“Yeah, you told me,” Castiel growls under his breath. His heart hammers in his chest as he tries to sound braver than he feels. “And yet you failed to specify what kind of _work_ you have in mind.”

Dean says nothing for a long moment. He looks at his drink again before turning his eyes back to Castiel.

“Explain it to me,” Castiel demands quickly when Dean remains silent. “What is a Witness? Why did I see the ghost of-of, Benny Lafitte?”

“Calm your britches there,” Dean murmurs. “A Witness is the ghost of somebody who _witnessed_ a supernatural being or event take place. They’re meant to be projections of the living’s guilt, usually. But they can kill. Real nasty things. Been ganking hunters all up this side of town.”

Castiel nods quickly. “Yes. Balthazar found that out — wait. _Balthazar_. He’ll be in danger if there are more.”

Dean raises a hand. “Balthazar is fine for the time being,” he says shortly. “But that Benny guy - what was he to you? Why are you so pent up over him?”

Castiel presses his lips together in a tight line before he answers. “I met him on a hunt. Vampires were chasing me, and I had a chance to get the jump on them. I had stopped at a bar after driving for hours and he asked me where I’d come from. We got talking…”

Dean quirks an eyebrow, silently waiting for Castiel to continue. Surely, Castiel can’t lie to an angel. That would be...offensive, wouldn’t it? Surely Dean would be able to tell. Angels, as Castiel knows, are holy, perfect beings. Even if Dean is already shattering every, perfect image of an angel Castiel has kept in his head since childhood. He draws in a deep breath, suddenly wishing he had a drink for himself as forces himself to keep talking.

“...and I took him back to my hotel room. We were...talking all night. Laughing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed with somebody like that. I shouldn’t have...taken him back to my hotel room when I knew the vampires were on my tail. But I did. We…” He vaguely gestures with his hand as Dean nods. His eyes spark with what Castiel swears is _amusement._

“We...copulated, so to speak. And then the vampires hunting me down found him when I left and ripped him limb-from-limb. He had been waiting for me to come back.”

Dean bites his lower lip, his amusement falling. “I see. I’m sorry about that, buddy.” He pushes his drink into Castiel’s hand. Castiel shivers when their fingers brush together for just a moment, feeling like touching an angel without permission is surely some terrible crime. Or a beautiful one. “Just drink it,” Dean grunts when he notices Castiel’s hesitation to accept the glass. “Think you need it more than me.”

Castiel takes a large, grateful gulp from the glass, finishing it in seconds. He sets it hastily back on the table with a low sigh.

“So...yes. Guilt is what I feel towards Benny Lafitte.” He shakes his head again. He can’t believe he’s just _telling_ him all of this, angel or not. “If this is a Seal as you say, then he fits that pattern. Why did you need to know all of that?”

Dean tilts his head. For a second, Castiel swears he looks _guilty._ But the look fades before Castiel can dawn on it any further.

“I didn’t need to. I was just curious.”

Quickly pulling into the top of Balthazar’s driveway, Castiel ignores Dean’s grumbling about the slow transportation and hurries out of the car. Castiel can hear a crash of noise from inside before the two even reach the door. Panic creeps up into his throat. The very idea of losing Balthazar -- _no._ He can’t let that happen. He can’t even _think_ about letting that happen.

He hurries in the house, flying through the door with Dean following quickly from behind. The sight before him makes him jump into action; in the kitchen, Balthazar struggles with the raging figure of a woman pinning him against the kitchen counter. 

_“You LEFT US!”_ she howls, her stringy, blonde hair spilling past her shoulders and over her bloody face. She’s smaller than him, but her strength is unmatched. Balthazar is helpless to escape her grip, just as Castiel had fallen helpless to Benny Lafitte in the bathroom. Balthazar gapes at her, mouth open, mumbling incoherent apologies under his breath as tears form in his eyes. “YOU LEFT US! YOU LEFT US AND WE SUFFERED!”

Castiel grabs the iron pan hanging above the sink and swings it at her, sending her vanishing in a puff of smoke.

“Took you long enough!” Balthazar croaks, his eyes wild. He pushes himself off the counter, grappling for his shotgun and quickly reloading it with fumbling hands. He drops one of the shells, cursing under his breath as he grapples for it and shoves it into the shotgun chamber.

“I’m sorry — “

“They won’t stop coming,” Balthazar heaves. “Watch out!”

He points behind Castiel. Benny stands there, eyes dark and ready to strike. Dean’s eyes flare that same, brilliant blue as he thrusts a hand out, filling the room with a harsh, white light. The ghost vanishes quickly.

“There’s a spell to banish the Witnesses,” Dean says quickly as he lowers his hand. He looks at Castiel. “You need to conduct it quickly. Or they’ll kill you.”

Castiel stares at him. He can tell Balthazar has questions - but he’d explain later. 

“Dean, you find what you need for the spell. Balthazar and I will hold them off.”

Dean nods once and begins searching through the house to gather the ingredients for the spell, leaving Castiel and Balthazar to stand on-guard. Almost immediately, the woman who’d pinned Balthazar reappears. She shoves Balthazar hard, sending him flying against the far kitchen wall as Castiel begins lining the room with salt. He grabs Balthazar, dragging him into the living room as the house begins to shake. The salt on the ground shifts and slides, breaking the line and allowing her to move through. 

“You killed me, Balthazar. You killed me and you didn’t even _care!”_ Castiel stumbles over, swinging the iron pan through her body and sending her away. Within seconds, Benny reappears and grabs Castiel by the throat, pulling and dragging him to the ground. Castiel chokes and sputters, trying to break free from Benny’s tight hold in vain.

“ _Maybe if you weren’t so sinful, so_ ugly _in the head, I’d still be alive, brother,_ ” he growls against his ear _. “Maybe if you had thought with your head instead of your dick, you wouldn’t have gotten me killed the way you did.”_

Castiel lets out a weak cry as Dean begins to chant, keeping his hand poised above the bowl on the table. Castiel can feel his vision blur and flicker, his eyes rolling back as Benny tightens his grip around his throat. He can’t breathe, can’t _move_ and he’s going to die this way. He’s going to die and the Hounds will come for him again and rip and tear and drag him back down below the crust and back into the pit where he belongs — 

And just like that, the room is still. Castiel gasps for breath, clutching at his throat as he staggers to his feet. Benny is gone and so is the woman. Castiel hastily looks around the room as Balthazar heaves for breath against the wall, clutching the armrest of the ratty recliner. The room is in ruin - books strewn across the floor, lightbulbs shattered. The drywall is cracked from where Balthazar had been thrown against it. Castiel turns and catches Dean’s eye, and Dean tells him that it’s done. The spell had worked.

“The rest of the Seals cannot be broken,” Dean says quietly, brushing off his hands against his pants. Castiel and Balthazar try to find their bearings as they look at one another in disbelief. “Or the Devil will rise. And believe me, Castiel. He does not want to be risen.”

Before Castiel and Balthazar can say another word, Dean disappears with the faint sound of wings flapping in the quiet room. Balthazar blinks at Castiel, speechless as he throws down the iron rod he’d been holding.

“Bloody hell, Cas,” Balthazar murmurs. He doesn’t say anything else as he gingerly wipes the trickle of blood trailing down his lip. Castiel kicks aside a piece of broken glass, rubbing his head as his vision slowly begins to focus again. 

“Balthazar, who was that woman?” Castiel asks cautiously.

Balthazar stares at him, his face blank and unreadable. 

“She was my sister.”

Later that night, after Castiel explained to Balthazar everything that he could about what Dean had told him, Castiel grabs his cellphone and flips it open, quickly dialing Lucifer’s number. His room is dark, and the crescent moon sitting high in the nighttime sky casts a thin film of light between the drawn curtains, cloaking half of Castiel’s face in a thin layer of moonlight. Castiel’s hand shakes as he holds the receiver to his ear, praying to a God he hardly believes in anymore for his brother to pick up the phone. The phone rings this time - it hadn’t before. But it takes him right to voicemail. With a sigh, Castiel bows his head and squeezes the phone tightly in his hand.

“Lucifer,” he says quietly. “It’s me...it’s Castiel. I...look...there have been some...troubling things happening lately. But I’m alive. And I swear it’s really me, you can even ask Balthazar. I think...I think we might be in trouble. It’s big, Lucifer. It’s...bigger than anything we’ve ever faced before. Angels are walking the earth...real, Biblical angels. And...I fear that the coming of the end of days may be close. Our father...I think our father was right, Lucifer. Please...I know we’ve...had our differences in the past. But I need to know that you’re okay and I swear I’ll explain everything then. I need you — “

The voicemail cuts off. Castiel flips his phone shut and slams it down on the nightstand with an exasperated sigh. He closes his curtains and rustles under the covers to try and get some resemblance of sleep, though it takes him nearly two hours before he can calm down enough to doze off. When he does, his dreams are confusing and violent. Splashes of gory color dance across his eyes, and a pair of bright, yellow eyes bore deep into his own. He sees Dean’s face in a flutter of wings which shifts quickly into an image of bodies strung up in chains, dripping with blood and stomach acid. It frightens him, and when he cries out into the dark, a hand on his shoulder pulls him back from the vivid, gory scene and into a different scene entirely and it fades as quickly as it had come. He looks around frantically, realizing he’s now sitting by a pond, cross-legged in the brown dirt close to the shore. The sunshine is warm on his back, and beside him, Dean stands with his hands shoved into his pockets. Behind them, a large, white house looms at the top of a low, grassy hill.

“Thought this might be a little easier for ya,” Dean tells him, staring out over the water. Castiel looks up at him in wonder, blinking in slow surprise.

“You pulled me out of a nightmare?” he asks. Dean nods. All at once, gratitude floods through him, making him sigh as he stares across the water. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For saving our lives earlier today. And for...for pulling me out of that nightmare.” He shivers where he sits, feeling uncertain even in the pleasant warmth.

Dean nods. “I wanted to say something to you, anyway.” Quiet, Dean moves to sit beside him, still gazing over the clear water. Castiel looks around them, suddenly realizing that he knows this place.

“Wait, this is the farm where I grew up,” Castiel breathes. He gazes at the house, amazed to see it standing whole like it had when he was a little boy. “I used to...I used to think the house was watching me when I sat here. It scared me, sometimes. Other times...it made me feel safe. Lucifer and I would come here and feed the ducks. Sometimes Lucifer would chase them, try and catch the little ducklings in his hands…” He shakes his head in wonder, realizing that he’s smiling. He never thought he’d see this place again. This place of happy memories before everything turned bad and ugly.

Dean nods in careful thought. “I just pulled it from your memories. Wasn’t sure what this place was or what it meant, but I figured it’d be better than that gorefest back there.”

Castiel sighs as he rubs his hands down his face. Relieved as he is to be away from the frightful nightmare, none of this still makes any sense to him. Apparently, angels can visit dreams, too. And manipulate them, if this really is Dean’s doing.

“Why are you here, Dean?” he asks quietly.

Dean swallows thickly. “You didn’t go to hell for the reasons you think that you did,” he murmurs. Castiel stares at him, his eyes fixed on the other’s still form. He feels terribly vulnerable and small, as though Dean were staring straight into his very soul. Perhaps he is.

“What are you talking about?”

Dean presses his lips together in a thin line. He turns away from Castiel to gaze out over the water, his earthy, green eyes watching the small ripples in the still water where bugs touch down on the surface. “I said that you didn’t go to hell for the reasons you think.”

“Yes, I heard you, but what do you — “

Dean disappears, leaving Castiel alone in the warm, morning light. Around him, crickets chirp in the grassy weeds. A bee buzzes by his nose before settling on a patch of daisies a few feet away from the water. Feeling more confused than ever before, Castiel closes his eyes and slips into an inky blackness as the familiar dream fades out of view.

When he finally wakes, hours later, he feels unrested and shaky. Despite being shielded from the nightmares (Had that really been Dean? Or did he just imagine it?) Castiel had only slept for a couple of hours. The clock on the dresser reads 6:21 a.m. He gropes for his phone, his chest leaping to life when he sees a text message notification.

A text from Lucifer. 

His hands shake as he quickly opens it, heart thudding in his chest. The message reveals a single word and set of numbers.

_‘Revelation 3:3’_

A Bible verse. Could that be some kind of sign? A message indicating Lucifer is in danger? He climbs out of bed, grabbing his Bible and quickly flipping to the indicated passage and reading it silently to himself. A chill creeps into his spine as the words seem to blur together on the page.

_‘Remember, then, what you received and heard. Keep it, and repent. If you will not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what hour I will come against you.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update every Tuesday. 
> 
> As a heads up, this fic will very likely have more than 10 chapters. I have many of them written out already, but I'm using 10 as a guide marker for now. Thank you for reading!


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